


Tower Green

by rotrude



Series: G [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, M/M, Tudor Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-21
Updated: 2011-01-21
Packaged: 2019-06-21 08:16:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15553482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: A short happy ending sequel to Greensleeves.





	Tower Green

He's sentenced for treason. Alvarr's head is to fall – a stroke of the axe, so the council decides. A year after the fact, a stroke of the axe is meant to put an end to the man's days. He's to die before the king's eyes, shouted at by an angry crowd made up by men, women and street urchins who take pleasure in watching heads roll and blood spatter in uneven but bright splotches on the ground. 

 

[One stroke, two? How many will the headsman inflict?  
Alvarr won't hang. He won't hang – only a blade to sever a nobleman's head.  
He's worthy of the noose.  
The body politic.  
The prince and the state are one thing. Can't have one without the other.  
Lèse majesté.]

 

Arthur would have wanted to let him languish in the tower; let him repent. But he can't let it go; can't be seen to. Courtiers know; politicians know. Ambassadors do as well and they pour venom in their letters, pointing out how Arthur's protracted mercy has been a form of madness that can be exploited. The general populace has heard the rumours: the bed, the king's lover, a cold and sharp steel dagger, and an arrest. Eye-witnesses had been present. A scandal – it had been a scandal. Rumour on the lips of those trained to serve: destabilising. The king has been expertly played. Leniency can't be shown: it's a sign of weakness. Clemency is for fools. Royalty can know no mercy.

Royalty feels like a mockery.

They're on Tower Green and the angry mob Arthur had expected has congregated before the scaffold to watch one of the mighty fall. It's hubris, the court poet states. Arthur sits on a makeshift throne elevated on a dais and carefully separated from the executioner's platform. Arthur is protected by a file of Yeomen warders. He's there to see it through because this concerns him like no other. He will watch a man die in his name. It's his duty.

A year, a great reform, and a divorce later and he's there to give the nation what it wants: a spectacle, revenge. It tastes like ashes.

Royalty feels like isolation.

There'll be a squall. The heavy clouds are slate grey. They promise rain and thunder, weather matching the feelings of an uneasy, lonely king. There'll be a squall. He looks up when the prisoner is lugged unwillingly up the three steps that lead to the scaffold. His hands are tied, his hair grown too long and tangled and dishevelled. The prisoner is wearing a thin shirt – a rag now. He's been reduced to this so that he could remember his guilt. Visual representation has always held great power, Lord Owain had advised.

Alvarr squints and fixes a cold glare on the king. He still dares. Two guards manhandle him in front of a waist high wooden block. They force him to kneel; they force him to submit. Alvarr goes down, but shakes free of their hold. “I defended magic,” he shouts. Some of the onlookers jeer at him, some stand there slack jawed, not having expected words from the prisoner, and a few pray for him to be either damned eternally or to be saved. The type of prayer is dictated by faith and creed, adherence to the old religion or hatred of it. Religion will always be a matter of civil unrest.

Arthur doesn't want to hear; doesn't want to see. He owes this man however: he owes him his attention. He listens.

“I die because I defended some of you who are like me and were discriminated for years because of circumstances they couldn't help. I die because I raised my hand against the scion of a tyrant who took the throne and made you all victims of his crusade against magic. The sins of the father should be visited upon the son.”

One of the guards kicks Alvarr – who's only Alvarr now, stripped as he's been of his titles and estates – in the ribs to shut him up.

Arthur raises his hand to make the guard stop: a condemned man has rights even if he chooses to badmouth the sovereign. If it be a weakness, then let Arthur be weak for once. He's buried Pride somewhere else along the way, with Love to bear it company.

A man in the crowd, an old man missing his two front teeth, shouts, “Assassin. Evil sorcerer. You would overthrow our king! Kill the common people.” A magic hater then, Arthur concludes.

“Yeah,” a boy, no more than fifteen, joins the chorus. So bloodthirsty, so young.

The king sits impassive on his throne. There is no victory in this.

It tastes like ashes.

The guard who kicked Alvarr places a hand on the nape of his neck and pushes his head down. Alvarr's in position now, the executioner's glinting axe grazing his neck. 

There's movement among the crowd, the unforgiving rabble. A cloaked figure advances, jostling the other onlookers. He reaches the first row of bystanders, hood concealing his features. The new arrival comes to stand next to the the old man with the missing teeth.

Drums roll.

The axe is raised.

The first raindrops start to fall, pattering down from the raging heavens.

The executioner adjusts and tightens his grip on the weapon.

The cloaked man in the crowd raises his head for a second or two; his eyes show from beneath the dark woollen hood, blue eyes Arthur'd know everywhere. The madman: does he want to be lynched? If they, these bloodthirsty individuals who are here for the circus of blood and punishment about to be shown, were to learn who the cloaked man in their midst is, they'd put an end to his life fast enough. He won the favour of a king, didn't he? Isn't that cause of hatred? And then he betrayed the same king who'd put him on a pedestal. Worry gnaws at Arthur's insides. Is he seeking absolution? Is this an act of atonement or camaraderie? Does he want to show Alvarr his solidarity? Can he be here for Arthur? Can he? Can he? If he just could be.

Tha axe is about to fall, blade whistling in the wind.

“Halt,” Arthur yells, springing from the tall chair that is posing as a throne.

The cloaked man's hood falls back. He looks up at the scaffold and the days erected behind it, eyes growing wide with hope and a glimmer of... Could it be pride?

Arthur has eyes only for him when he says, “He has my pardon. A royal pardon.” He devours the man he'd known as Greensleeves with his eyes and murmurs once again, “He has my forgiveness,” not sparing Alvarr a glance.

The executioner looks dumbfounded, but he lowers his weapon somewhat, looking at the guards for a cue. Lancelot, the Duke of Suffolk, nods as if to confirm that the axeman has understood rightly.

The weapon is lowered completely. Alvarr looks up, pale but in control. He doesn't sigh in relief or smile or faint. He becomes just another bystander.

Arthur jumps down, joining the crowd to a chorus of confused cries from his overprotective guards. A king among commoners: unheard of.

The crowd parts to make way for royalty and Arthur comes to stand before the cloaked man, hands trembling like an old man's. He wants to touch him to make sure he's not a glamour, a figment of his stupid imagination, his love-sickness. But, no, those eyes meet his and those lips curve up ironically in a way that makes Arthur remember joy. Arthur whispers, “Greensleeves,” because he can't let these ruthless people guess who this man is.

“Arthur.” Merlin tilts his head. Those who can hear him gasp: who dares address the king so?

Arthur smiles and kisses Greensleeves on the lips: and it's familiar and awkward and awe-inspiring. He clutches the man to him and finds he's grown haggard and rail thin, but his lips are as soft and his mouth is as welcoming and warm as it had been a year ago on a bed in Greenwich Palace. “You played the outcast. Where were you?”

“An exile, My Lord,” Merlin nips at his lips and etches the last word on Arthur's mouth. “France, your majesty.”

“Let me pamper you,” Arthur answers and it's an oath to the gods, his and Merlin's, that he will do so from this day forward.

Arthur leads Merlin away from the crowd to hushed questions of “Who was he?”

An onlooker, who must have overheard, says,”Greensleeves,” and gossip and legends are born.


End file.
